The Truth
by Runawaymetaphor
Summary: Some truths are harder than others...


**Author's Note**:_ Do I feel guilty posting this with three unfinished stories? Not a bit. Though I can hear someone in Canada wailing from here._ ;-)

* * *

**The Truth**

_"The truth is in-between the first and fortieth drink." - Tori Amos_

* * *

By the time I spot him at the bar, I'm beyond my first drink. Which isn't to say I'm drunk. At least, not nearly as drunk as I've come here with the intention of getting.

I'm merely fuzzy around the edges. My flesh having begun to tingle with a kind of inebriation I haven't allowed myself in years; the memories of the last few days dulling to a manageable level of pain.

Which is why when I see Tom Paris' blonde head across the room, his eyes locked on the rapidly disappearing amber liquid in front of him, I think for a moment that my senses must be duller than I gauged. Assume, quite reasonably, that the Bajoran kanar has gone to my head with rather impressive stealth.

If I'm being honest, I'll say the man has never made it onto my favorites list. But even in my more. . . uncharitable moments, I recognize that this no longer the kind of place the aging pilot (now husband and also father) is wont to spend his time.

Old instincts, legacies of being his direct commanding officer no matter my personal dislike, infiltrate my thoughts. I begin to grown concerned that he's chosen to handle his emotions this way; deal with the recent loss alone, in a crowded room of strangers, rather than with the wife who's waiting for him sectors away on Earth.

The hypocrisy of this strikes me a moment later. I'm barely a social drinker, and I've chosen to do the same thing. Have taken a one-month leave from the ship and crew I'm responsible for, only to crawl to this seedy station, on the outskirts of Federation space, with the sole intention of drinking myself half-blind.

Maybe's it's ridiculous pride, or maybe it's just that it's Paris of all people. But after a minute of pondering his presence, my strongest reaction is to leave before he spots me. It doesn't take a Q to divine the exact nature of the pain that brought me here. And the part of me that clearly remembers the old Maquis days makes me cringe at the kind of glib taunts that could quickly spring to Paris' mind.

_Who's the barfly now, Chakotay? Come in search of your spirit guide at the bottom of a glass? _

It's true that we both share the same loss; are mourning the same person. But in all the ways that count, her loss is different for me than him. Different for me than anyone else who shared _Voyager _with her.

I've no desire to console another person, and I certainly don't require Tom Paris' knowing looks about the woman my pain concerns.

I stand quickly. Too quickly. My leg knocks against the chair, making a clatter that Tom's keen eyes are quick to investigate.

His reaction is hardly welcoming, though it's far from the dark sarcasm I expected. He squares his shoulders and dips his head to his glass, refusing to meet my gaze. It's my escape. An easy one at that.

I'm halfway to the exit when I hear Kathryn's voice in my mind, her words indignant at my letting her former reclamation project drown this way- in a shallow pool of liquor.

Empty words about duty; obligation; compassion. I press my palms against my eyelids, hoping to shake the feeling of a dead woman's disapproval.

_Disapproval. Always disapproval. Why was that, Kathryn?_

Kathryn's voice is still playing in my ears when I take a seat next to Paris, then motion to the bartender for a refill on my kanar.

"I didn't expect to find you here," I offer, when it's clear he won't break the silence. "I have to admit I was hoping not to see. . . anyone."

When he finally meets my gaze, his eyes are cold and angry. Obviously accusing.

"If Harry sent you, _Captain_, tell him to butt out. My wife knows exactly where I am and I'm not killing anyone- so I certainly don't need Harry's brand of _mothering_."

I put up my hand to ward off his angry tirade, even if I can see why he's misunderstood the situation. How many people come to "private" space stations in the Bajoran sector, just to blow off a little steam?

"I didn't expect to see anyone I know here," I repeat. Then add, with a slow shake of my head, "I almost left when I spotted you."

Tom takes in that last confession with eyes that size me up. Looking for deception, a bluff. Perhaps even a weakness to exploit later.

Strange how in this moment those wary eyes remind me of the woman we're both apparently drinking to forget.

"So I take it you're mad at Harry?" I begin, as Tom's Irish whiskey is refilled, from a real bottle for which he's no doubt paid dearly.

"Mister Kim and I have different ways of dealing with things," Tom chimes glibly.

He doesn't elaborate, and I don't push at first. Just take in the silence, both of us rapidly emptying our glasses.

"I swear he would canonize her if he could," Tom laughs a few minutes later. But it's brittle, hollow laughter that seems to crumble around him.

"Canonize," I repeat the word, my slowed mind searching for its archaic meaning.

"To make a saint," Tom provides, then salutes to something with his glass.

"I would imagine most people who served under Kathryn Janeway would do the same," I blandly defend. "She made inhuman sacrifices to get us home."

Tom doesn't deny the obvious truth of my statement. Merely looks at me with eyes filled with sarcasm; a darkness I could find kinship in, if I allowed myself to dwell there.

"Another round," I call, before Tom can lend voice to any of his thoughts.

"Another round," Tom agrees easily, then passes a few moments contemplating the ceiling. "What are you drinking, anyway? Would have thought it's kanar from the smell, but it's the wrong color for it."

"It's Bajoran kanar," I admit, and inwardly cringe when his eyes go wide. "Saw it on the menu, reminded me of old times."

He doesn't comment on my selection, and for this much I'm grateful. The spirit in my hand is a symbol of the Bajoran occupation; one that Federation bars unanimously refuse to put on their menus, for good reason.

I try not to focus on the emotion feeding my impulse to consume it now.

"To remembering," he says diplomatically, and raises his glass in toast.

But Tom's a smart man, and I know he sees the irony in what he's offering.

I decide to embrace it all- the edge in Tom's voice, the darkness courted by his words. Drink heartily of the liquid that tastes like ash against my tongue as I ignore the echoes of a friend who's no longer here to judge me for all of this.

"You can't blame Harry," I begin, noting with interest that my words are now coming out with a subtle slur.

"I'm not really angry at him," Tom waves off. "I just need. . . space away from the alter of worship and deification."

"She wasn't perfect," I allow.

Tom thinks better of elaborating on my comment. Fills his mouth with whiskey to save himself replying after a moment of hesitation.

_Tom Paris filtering his words. Now there's a sight to behold. _

The problem is that a part of me wants his unfiltered reflections. Recognizes, too, that there probably isn't anyone else I can have this kind of conversation with. Not to any degree of meaningful honesty, anyway.

"She wasn't perfect," I say again. "Strong as hell most of the time. But definitely not perfect."

"It's like Harry forgot the crushing expectations, the manipulations."

"The hypocrisy."

"Who are _you _telling," Tom gestures widely, wringing from me a knowing smirk.

Spirits knows that woman made a pretzel out of the Prime Directive whenever it suited her, then threw Tom in the brig for doing roughly same.

"Even Tuvok was surprised when she came down on you that hard."

"Ya know, the worst part is . . . I forgave her. Just like Harry. B'Elanna."

"Seven. The Doctor."

"God," Tom laughs mirthlessly, "what was wrong with all of us?"

"Nothing," I sigh, earning a raised eyebrow. "The good always outweighed the bad with Kathryn."

"It did," Tom acknowledges solemnly. Then adds, after brief reflection, "so why I am so damn angry with her all of a sudden?"

_So damn angry_. The words hand me a piece of a puzzle that' I've been missing.

Is that why I'm here, hiding from the world? Not grief, but anger. A pulsing rage I can now feel within my veins.

"She wasn't perfect."

The words become a mantra as I empty my glass yet again. The voice that was Kathryn's admonishments recedes inside my head. I don't know how many more drinks it will take to extinguish it entirely, but I'm determined to find out.

"Reckless," Tom mutters. "_Epically stubborn_. Goddamned convinced she could save the universe on her own."

"She rarely let anybody in."

"She let _you_ in," Tom says, and for a moment I think he's fishing. Raise my gaze to do my own bit of sizing up, only to find a frankness I've rarely seen on the man perched next to me.

"Sometimes she did," I shrug. "Sometimes I felt like it was all bait and switch."

Tom doesn't look surprised by the admission, and the anger inside of me churns with a bit more vigor. I remember all the crew's jokes at my expense, back when we were out there. How many of them thought of me as 'Commander Yes Ma'am,' rather than Kathryn's XO and closest friend?

The more time passes, the harder it is to cling to the belief that they were wrong. Maybe I really was Kathryn Janeway's errand boy and sometime-puppet. I just didn't get the memo until we were already docked at home.

"Did she ever say anything . . . about you and Seven?"

The last part is almost a whisper. Even drunk, Tom knows he's treading on thin ice. At least he would be, were half my inhibitions not abandoned about two drinks ago.

"I told her about the two of us as soon we docked at McKinley."

"And. . . ?"

"And. She gave me a long, measured look, then said, 'whatever makes the two of you happy, Commander.'"

I can't keep the bitterness from my voice as I tell the story, though it's an outrage to which I probably have no right.

Dating Seven was to hurt Kathryn, I've realized this sometime ago. The awful irony is that the only two people who ended up wounded were Seven and myself.

"I resented her for so much," Tom confesses, "and that was before I even set foot on her ship."

"_You_ didn't give up your own command to be her XO, kind sir."

"Touché," Tom concedes. Downs his whiskey in an elegant motion he should no longer be capable of, before he motions yet again for more.

"She'd hate this," I say, and rub my eyes to clear them.

"Us trashing her?" Tom questions. "Or us getting trashed?"

"The latter. . . The first I suspect she'd pretend to ignore."

"Behavior unbecoming the Starfleet uniform," Tom intones, in his best Janeway voice.

"Adolescent behavior she wouldn't have expected from _her senior officers_."

"Worthy of brig time in her book."

"Or maybe just the silent treatment."

"What a bitch," Tom shakes his head, making me guffaw. It's certainly a word I've considered with respect to Kathryn Janeway, but never one I've used out loud.

We both laugh, and I put my head down against the bar. Shake with amusement at the _appropriate inappropriateness _of Tom's last honest observation.

It isn't until I sit up that I realize Tom's laughter has turned into something else. His body still wracked, but now with silent sobs.

"I know," I say. But I don't move to touch him, as my eyes are blurring, too.

We both ignore the odd stares from the bar's other patrons. Begin to grieve with abandon, for a woman they've likely never heard of.

_Spirits, Kathryn. How you would hate this. _

My last coherent thought is that I'd give everything for her to tell me.


End file.
